A VERY BEAUTIFUL DAY IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD

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There is a new movie out with Tom Hanks called, “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood.” And since I had previously written about Mister Rogers, (a blog that is not included here) I had more than a passing interest in seeing the movie.

Admittedly, I feel a little guilty going to a movie alone these days, as my wife is staying with our grandson, while our daughter is spending a month in Nepal, (yes, Nepal) engaged in doing social work with an NGO there. (But, admittedly, the guilt wasn’t potent enough to preclude me from following through with my plan last night).

Well, so I got dressed, and drove the ten or twelve minutes which separated me from the local theater in time for the first Friday evening premier showing. However, when I arrived, I discovered that the parking lot was full to overflowing, and I surmised that I didn’t want any part of sitting “bunched up” against a person on my left and one on my right, and a theater packed out like sardines in a can. As a result, I had no sooner drove into the “asphalt jungle” that I turned around and drove out of it.

Having arrived home, and put on my jogging shorts and muscle shirt, I debated whether I would “take in” the 10:30pm showing of the movie. I was tired, and I knew my ambition would, no doubt, progressively wane in the two hours which separated me from the process of redressing, getting in the car, and heading back to the theater.

However, as a counselor I tell my clients that there’s a great substitute for ambition, since ambition is little more than an emotion. The substitute? A decision. After all, anything good must be done “on purpose.” Only wrecks happen by accident. (Sorry, I couldn’t resist that little teaching).

Thus, I made a premeditated decision to take in the late movie. I realized that the theater would be “blown out” on Saturday, and I would find myself in exactly “the same boat” as I experienced the first time that I drove up to the theater.

Throwing my street clothes back on, I walked out the door at 9:55pm, and retraced my route of two hours earlier. Ten minutes later I drove into… an almost empty parking lot, and, as you might expect, I wasn’t complaining.

Exiting the car, I walked the twenty yards which separated me from my quest; the box office window. And as I stepped up to the young lady in the booth, and she looked expectantly at me, waiting for me to announce the movie of my choice, I almost involuntarily began to sing.

(Yeah, I did).

“It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood…”

And then, the slightest bit self-conscious, I mused,

“I bet lots of folks have walked up to you tonight singing that song.”

To which “Anna” replied,

“Ummm. Nope, you’re the first one!”

(Now, I really did feel like a fool. LOL).

Having purchased my ticket, I walked through the front door and into the lobby, had my ticket punched by the attendant, walked to the candy counter, asked for a senior popcorn and coke, paid for my goodies, and proceeded to theater number three; down the hallway, second door on the right.

Walking into the theater, I found it to be very dark, very quiet, and …very empty.

As a matter of fact, I was the only human being in the whole place! And, as I always do, I climbed the steps of the amphitheater to the top, walked to the middle of the row of seats, and plopped down, dead center; setting my drink in the right holder, and my wallet, and cell phone in the left one. (I am one of those guys who doesn’t like to carry stuff in my pockets. Even when I go to a restaurant, I immediately set the obtrusive items on the table).

Be that as it may, I sat “all by my lonely” on the top row of the theater, as the commercials for upcoming movies ran for 15 plus minutes. However, finally, finally the opening credits of “A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood” flickered onto the screen.

And as you might imagine, the first scene had a fairly believable Tom Hanks, portraying Mr. Rogers, walking through the door of his “play room,” opening a nearby closet, exchanging his suit coat for a red sweater, and taking off his street shoes, and replacing them with sneakers.

To be fair, I thought the well-known actor’s attempt to replicate Mr. Rogers’ voice was slightly contrived, (but perhaps only slightly). At the same time, he looked enough like “the real McCoy” for this audience of one to settle in, and absorb the plot and implications of the movie.

And without absolutely spoiling it for you, suffice it to say that the plot centered around a fella named Tom Junod, (though he assumes a different name in the film), an Esquire magazine journalist, and his relationship with Mr. Rogers; (which all began when the former contacted the latter for an interview).

Ultimately, this interview was titled, “Can You Say…Hero?” and became the feature story for the November 1998 issue of Esquire magazine, and featured (there’s that word again) the beaming image of Mr. Rogers on the cover.

And again, without giving away anything, Mr. Rogers made a profound difference in Tom Junod’s life, and for that matter, the life of his entire family. He made a difference in many lives that God set in his pathway.

There was an exchange in the movie in which our “hero” is speaking on the phone with the foregoing journalist, and he says,

“Do you know who the most important person in my life is, Tom?”

And perhaps Junod merely responded with, “Who?”

And with a twinkle in his eye, and a slight catch in his characteristic voice, Mr. Rogers replies,

“Well, at this very moment, Tom, you are the most important person in my life!”

I think that’s how he made you feel. Yes, I think that’s how he made you feel. As if for that moment in time, you were the only person who really mattered to him.

I felt very much this way when I paraphrased the Book of Philippians; (years before I paraphrased the entire New Testament). It was as if I was given the wherewithal to walk into Paul’s Roman cell, and sit down beside him, and talk with him about his life, and impact and suffering, to know him as my friend and brother, and to realize his compassion and joy in spite of the circumstances which surrounded him.

Following is a poignant reminiscence from an article about Mr. Rogers.

“Every morning, when he swims, he steps on a scale in his bathing suit and his bathing cap and his goggles, and the scale tells him he weighs 143 pounds. This has happened so many times that Mister Rogers has come to see that number as a gift, as a destiny fulfilled, because, as he says,

‘the number 143 means I love you. It takes one letter to say I, and four letters to say love, and three letters to say you. One hundred and forty-three. I love you. Isn't that wonderful?’”

And now, the movie finally drew to a close, and I hesitated to leave. After stuffing my wallet and cell phone back into my pockets, I ambled down the long flight of steps, and paused to see if any actual footage of the “real” Mister Rogers would appear on the screen. And, in fact, it did.

There he was standing in his element, in his little “play room” with his puppets, and lighting up his little world with that memorable smile.

Now, I walked down the long hallway which led out of the very dark, very quiet and… very empty theater. And as I walked out the door, and into the lobby of the place, I could still hear the closing song as it trailed off behind me.Top of Form

 

Bottom of Form

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood
A beautiful day for a neighbor
Could you be mine?
Would you be mine?

Let's make the most of this beautiful day
Since we're together, might as well say
Would you be my, could you be my
Won't you be my neighbor?

A lone security guard greeted me, as I neared the exit of the building. The lights were turned down low. No one was behind the candy counter, and the ushers were, by now, heating up their TV dinners, or turning in for the night.

And now, I pushed open the exit door, and stepped out into the street. And a penetrating moment of sadness suddenly overwhelmed me.

I can’t really account for why I experienced that fleeting emotion. Perhaps it had something to do with the poignancy of losing anyone so singular as this man happened to be, and who had impacted several generations of children.

Children who ultimately became fathers and mothers, and subsequently, grandfathers and grandmothers; while their own children and grandchildren continued to be entertained by the same humble little man; who to children presented as an adult, and who to adults seemed almost childlike.

 

So much like the journalist, I felt almost as if I had been granted my own personal interview with Mister Rogers. After all, I had been the only human being within fifty feet in any direction, and I experienced a strange sensation that this man had set aside a bit of his valuable time, as he did with countless other people during his lifetime… for me.

And perhaps during those few moments which he granted me, I was, indeed, the most important person in his life.

 

*Tom Hanks was recently informed that he and Mister Rogers are 6^th cousins. No wonder they look alike.

 

By William McDonald, PhD

FINDING A SEAT ON THE FLOOR

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As I was watching the David Jeremiah “Turning Point” broadcast today, the good minister presented the most poignant illustration.

It seems a very large, rather formal church hoped to put together a ministry designed to reach the students of a nearby university. However, not having ever undertaken such a project, the pastor and board were a bit perplexed about how to approach the task.

On one particular Sunday, a student of that university attended the morning worship service. It so happened that David was, like so many other young adults who attended this school, a bit eccentric, or at least wanted to ‘fit in,’ and was dressed in a pair of cut-off jeans, old t-shirt, and sandals. His hair was cut into a mohawk, and was tie-dyed in several colors.

However, David arrived a few minutes late, and as he entered the sanctuary, he realized that every pew was full to capacity. As a result, the teenaged student walked the entire length of the center carpet, and plopped himself down in the aisle. You could have heard a pin drop. Though the pastor had stepped up to the pulpit to deliver his morning message, he seemed unable to proceed.

Suddenly, from the back of the sanctuary an aged, white-haired deacon appeared, and began to make his way down the aisle towards the hapless university student. His relatively short journey was hampered by his lack of mobility, and his cane ‘clicked,’ ‘clicked’ with each step her took.

A holy hush permeated the building as the board member made his way closer, closer to his quest. All eyes were directed towards the deacon, then the student, then the deacon.

Finally, having arrived next to the boy, and pausing for a moment, the old gent dropped his cane, and struggled to… lower himself to the floor beside David. And there they sat. One very young, and unconventional student. One very old, and conventional deacon. Side by side, and ready for a Gospel message.

And at this juncture, the pastor regained a bit of his composure, and exclaimed,

“What I am about to preach you will never remember. What you have just witnessed take place before you, you will never forget.”

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

SEIZE THE DAY

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I have often reflected on one particular scene in the movie, “Dead Poet’s Society;” (a good movie and an extraordinary scene).

“Mr. Keating,” a teacher at a private boy’s school, (who seems to have a knack for offering his students insightful tidbits, while using everyday objects and themes) leads his boys down the stairs from the classroom, and into the lobby of the institution.

The young professor walks towards a couple of trophy cases, and instructs his pupils to gather about him.

“Now I would like you to step forward over here and peruse some of the faces from the past. You've walked past them many times. I don't think you've really looked at them. They're not that different from you, are they? Same haircuts. Full of hormones, just like you. Invincible, just like you feel. The world is their oyster. They believe they're destined for great things, just like many of you. Their eyes are full of hope, just like you.”

Mr. Keating’s boys are “all ears” by this point in his monologue. They know something of some value is coming.

And with the assurance of someone wiser than his years, the teacher continues.

“Did these young men in the photographs wait until it was too late to make from their lives even one iota of what they were capable? Because you see gentlemen, these boys are now fertilizing daffodils. But if you listen closely, you can hear them whisper their legacy to you. Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it? (whispering in a gruff voice) Carpe. Hear it? (whispering) Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys. Make your lives extraordinary.”

And I think we have the privilege, opportunity and obligation to do this.

…To make our own lives extraordinary.

To discover the best within us. To find out that one thing which separates us from the rest. To develop that talent, that gift, that interest, which almost begs for a forum, to a razor’s edge. To, as Mr. Keating admonishes us, make our lives extraordinary. And I think we have the innate wherewithal to do this. (Though I think too few tend to do so).

There is an illusion in Homer’s “The Iliad and the Odyssey” in which the hero of the story, Odysseus, the captain of the ship, has himself tied to the mast, while he instructs the remainder of his crew to pack wax in their ears. For you see, their ship was scheduled to sail past a particular island populated by beautiful half-clothed women, men-haters, who sang the most melodious of songs. And it was on the shores of this island that dozens of ships had crashed upon the rough-hewn rocks which surrounded it; crew after crew lured to their deaths by the ethereal songs of the maidens. But due to the foresight of Odysseus, he is among the first to hear the Siren Song, and live to tell the tale; as the ship sails harmlessly past the island, and on to their port of call.

And while the foregoing myth has a rather negative connotation, as a counselor I have “put a spin” on an old story, and assigned it a more positive meaning. For as I have so often taught my clients, God also sings a Siren Song. (Yes, He does). And amazingly,

…He sings it to you and me!

In Christian circles we have labeled that song, “God’s Calling.” And I am convinced that our Lord calls you and me to pursue a goal, to complete a task, to fulfill a destiny, and to leave a legacy. And I am equally convinced that the Creator planned our individual destinies

…before He made the worlds!

For in Psalms 139:16 we read, “Before I ever took my first breath, you planned every day of my life” and scripture assures you and me that “My times are in Your hands.” (Psalms 31:15)

Granted, the foregoing information makes good theory until we discover whatever it is that God has for us to do with our lives. But, I think, the same One who sings the song is more than capable of lighting the pathway. For He has assured us that “if with all your heart you will seek the Lord, Your God,

…you will find Him.” (Jeremiah 29:13)

And so much like the maidens of Homer’s odyssey, the Master of the Universe humbles Himself to sing us His song. It is left to us to take time to listen, and to go about fulfilling whatever plans He has designed for us, as individuals, to complete.

In the words of “Mr. Keating,”

“Go on, lean in. Listen. Do you hear it?

Carpe. Carpe Diem.

…Seize the day boys and girls. Make your lives extraordinary.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

HERE

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I have often told my counseling clients,

"There aren't any time machines."

(and)

"You can't go back and give your younger self guidance, or fix something you once broke."

(and)

"As much as you regret something you chose to do in the past, all you can do is learn from it, and move forward."

And the failure to heed this trivial bit of advice continues to "bite" every one of us.

It "came back home" to me again tonight.

I decided I would step into my 2015 silver Nissan Altima and drive the 15 minutes which separated me from the Lakeland Cinema 18, and buy a ticket to the movie, "Here."

(Did I say, "As much as you regret something you chose to do in the past...?" Yeah, I thought I did).

"Here" was a great example of this principle.

Having bought my ticket, and walked into Theater 4, I climbed the carpet-covered staircase to the top row of seats, and took my place dead center.

Til right up to 7:59pm, I was convinced that for the second time in my life, I would be the only one in the theater. However, just as the commercials began at 8:00pm, a young man and woman walked in, and found two seats directly ahead, but about five rows below me.

Twenty minutes later, the initial seconds of the movie, "Here" flashed on the screen. In retrospect, the only thing worse than the plot, (or lack thereof), of the movie was the regrettable admixture of several GD's; (something I have never learned to tolerate very well).

I mean, the premise, plot, (and apparent outcome), of the movie becomes apparent in the first 43 seconds. For you see, as "Here" begins we see an ancient landscape of mountains, and volcanoes, and rocks and rivers. The scene metamorphoses and now we see dinosaurs scurrying across the landscape. No sooner than these prehistoric giants appear, fire begins to rain down from the sky; (presumably a depiction of the great meteorite which fell into the Gulf of Mexico and hampers their wherewithal to breathe). Now, we see grass and flowers and trees and hummingbirds and deer. And now, an Indian unleashes an arrow towards the afore mentioned animal.

Now, we see a red brick mansion in what appears to be a wilderness area, and we fast forward through the next couple of centuries, and additional homes and roads appear. And now, we are looking through a living room window, and that red brick mansion looms large across the street. And now, we see a Model T rush by the window. And now, a man and wife, and a 1940's realtor in the midst of introducing the house to them.

Billy Joel sung what became a very popular song,

"And So It Goes"

Well, "And So It Goes" characterizes the movie, "Here" as well as any four words could possibly characterize it. Because, for the next forty minutes, one 2-5 minute scene after another, populated by a host of different people, over the course of several decades, occurs in that 20x20 rectangle; commonly known as a living room. 

Of course, while the stars of the movie are A.I. age regressed Tom Hanks and Robin Wright, their screen time is shared with numerous other Hollywood "wannabees" who frequent the myriad of scenes which take place in that living room, and which speak to everything from a man who invents a 360 degree lounge chair to a returning WWII soldier who takes up residence there with his wife to a boy artist who is, ultimately, more suited to a different vocation. 

An hour later I still find myself in that same boring little living room with all those boring actors dressed in the motif of whatever time period they hope to portray and continuing to strut and fret their stuff. An hour I can never hope to retrieve. But rather than make it two hours, I stand to my feet, and find my way to the carpet-covered staircase.

An hour I would never retrieve. 

But before the final minute of approximately one - six hundred fifty fifth thousandth of my life elapsed, and I crossed the threshold towards the red lit exit sign, I glanced to my left, and waved at the young couple. 

Two people whom I did not know, and who I will, in all likelihood, never see again. And yet, I consider the scant few seconds which it took to offer them a closing salute were inestimably more valuable than the hour I devoted to that convoluted movie; which I am equally unlikely to ever see again.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

*The math in the second to last paragraph is based on the fractional amount of time one hour is to the 655,000 hours the average American male experiences in the course of 75 years.

A VERY SMALL BOY ON A VERY LARGE ELEVATOR

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What follows is a small excerpt from my autobiography. It’s a sometimes humorous account of an incident which occurred in my young life, and a corresponding and parallel incident which occurred a full sixty years later.

And while what I am about to share with you is, as I have implied autobiographical in nature, for our purposes tonight I want to encourage you to think of it as an allegory of life, itself.

Having been a participant in the story, I’m about to share with you, and having come away from it alive, at that time in my life I might have admonished anyone who would listen,

…“if this is all there is to family fun, you need to avoid it at all costs!”

For on a given day, month and year, my dad and mom packed me into the family automobile, (I can’t tell you the make or model this far along) and off we went. Had I any inkling what “lay in wait” for me, I would have definitely avoided that excursion in favor of something a bit more mundane.

I can imagine my response when my mother made me aware of the “golden opportunity” which lay ahead of me that day.

“Mommie, where we be goin? Daddy plomised me a I-creme cone, if I be good.”

To which she may have replied.

“Yes, he told me. We’ll pick it up on our way home, Royce… if you’re good. But if you’re not, then…”

Well, I guess we drove 5-6 miles, and pulled into a busy parking lot. I looked around, and then upward. We were surrounded by tall buildings, and I could smell the salt air. It turns out daddy had laid a roof on one of these massive structures, and had discovered a little known attraction; at least little known in our little corner of the world.

“Royce,” daddy spoke. “We’re gonna do something super fun today. Look up at the top of that building,” (and I followed his finger to the sky.)

“Son, watch this.”

I strained to see what my dad was referring to. Suddenly I saw it. A flash of orange and green color moving like a swift caterpillar along the edge of the roof. And then it was gone, but the noisy clatter continued and cut the surrounding air like a razor. Daddy told me to keep watching, and again a speeding flash of color, and as quickly as it appeared, it had vanished again.

My father’s voice was tinged with expectation and a bit of humor.

“Well, my boy. Do I have a surprise for you today!”

Judging from the speed of the whatchamacallit and its proximity to the edge of the roof, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be surprised.

I’m sure I looked at my mother, and no doubt, her face wore an anxious, “I don’t know how smart this is, but I guess we’ll give it a whirl” sort of expression.

As we closed in on the building, I could no longer see IT, but the sound of the machine grew louder with each step. Now we found ourselves in what I later learned was a revolving door, which brought us face to face with the ground floor of a vast department store, filled with everything from blue jeans to light bulbs to pogo sticks. While my attention was diverted, (I may well have been looking at the latter of the three afore mentioned items) my dad navigated his small family up to a set of two massive double doors.

Suddenly, I heard a thump that seemed to shake the floor beneath my feet. I think I felt it more than I heard it, and the vibration startled me. Then the large metal doors parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

I was so transfixed by it all that my mom almost dragged me into the elevator. This was a first for me, but considering my tender age, almost everything was a first for me. And as I soon discovered, the “firsts” for that day were far from over.

I recall a feeling of being suspended in mid-air as the elevator lifted off, and I found myself holding onto my mother’s left knee for dear life. As I glanced up at my dad, it seemed he was a veteran of this little floating room with no furniture. As a matter of fact, a mischievous smile played about his lips, and somehow this comforted me. I turned loose of my mom’s knee, and as much as a four year old can manage it, I tried to act nonchalant. But I could only wonder what terrible surprise awaited me on the roof top.

The buttons on the control panel were labeled 1-14, and when we drew to a stop, I noticed there was a circular pattern of green light around button #14. Mama had been teaching me to count, and I realized there was no #13. I vowed to ask her about the absence of this number later.

The elevator “stopped with a start” and the doors parted again. My parents and I stepped out, and I was surprised to find we seemed to be in the midst of a garden center. Rakes, and sprinklers and work gloves filled bins of all shapes and sizes. And then I noticed the sound, the same sound I’d heard outside the building, but now it was almost overpowering. And if sound can be perceived as a circular motion, these acoustic vibrations had such an impact on me.

Mama allowed daddy to lead the way, since he had first told her about this place. It seems my dad had come home all excited talking about this cool ride. It was only years later that I learned the details.

Daddy led us to an open doorway, and as I stood directly in front of it, I noticed a short flight of stairs. It was about this time that mama leaned over, and considering the decibel level, almost shouted in my ear, (in a tone of voice that was anything but reassuring.)

…”Honey, I think you’re really gonna like this.”

I was led like a lamb to the slaughter up that short flight of stairs which seemed to grow progressively longer with each successive step.

And then… we were there.

As I stared in awe at the colorful, but foreboding piece of machinery, I almost mused aloud,

…“You want me to do what?”

Though my childish mind was immature and incapable of formulating such a phrase, with the passing of years I think those six words are as close as any to describing my perception of what greeted me that day.

“Royce, you’ll absolutely love it.”

“What daddy?”

I had been so transfixed with the scene before me that I hadn’t grasped what he said to me.

“Your mother and I will wait. Go ahead and get in line behind those other boys and girls.” 

“You mean… all by myself, daddy?”

“Yes son. Of course.”

I hesitated a moment to see if he was joking. Apparently he wasn’t. And so I dutifully obeyed.

Even at this age I could do the math. There were seven children in front of me, and I noticed that the metal ogre was slowing to a stop. It wasn’t enough that the machine emitted creaks and groans and whistles, as it sailed along the circular track, but the boys and girls who rode that iron horse of a thing were even louder. I watched them as they stepped out of their respective cars. Smiles lit up the faces of a couple of eight or ten year olds. But without exception, the younger kids seemed as pale as ghosts, and a little girl, (she might have been 5 or 6) first stumbled, and then “lost her cookies” on the boarding platform.

The attendant could only shake his head and groan. I felt something welling up inside of me, and I was close to emulating the behavior of the little girl. The seven of us, who had previously formed a perfectly straight line, had by now backed into a cluster. Had Mr. Nielsen been there that day, his rating would, no doubt, have revealed an utter contempt for this mechanical beast, and a very strong desire in all our hearts to simply… go home.

Now the attendant was mopping up the mess with a mop and bucket. I turned around so I didn’t have to watch the least favorite part of his less than professional vocation.  And I noticed my daddy and mama were watching me from the sidelines.

Henry McDonald’s son wasn’t about to chicken out at such a God-awful moment. No way, Jose. I didn’t have to ask. I knew what the answer would be. And as much as everything inside of me screamed for a way out,

… I knew it didn’t exist.

Then I did something that I would soon live to regret. As the young fella was putting away his mop and bucket, I stepped up into the number one boarding position, (but only three of the original seven children stepped up behind me.) I turned to look, and it was then I noticed two girls and one boy walking towards the staircase; hand in hand with their mothers and fathers.

But I had made my choice, if indeed a choice existed, and as the frustrated attendant opened the door of a brightly painted car… I stepped in and sat down.

The young man buckled my seat belt and pulled it tight around my waist. I was committed, come hell or high water.

…(At least it was a good theory.)

The metal monster picked up some momentum now, and my parents’ faces whizzed past at dizzying speed. I felt that old familiar queasiness in my belly and rising up in my throat. Someone nearby was screaming loudly!

And then I realized that someone

… was me!

I was on the back of a raging tiger. I was riding the crest of a hurricane-driven wave. I was a hapless bowling pin in the hands of a giant juggler.

Somehow I caught the eye of my mother, and she knew what she had to do. She rushed over to the little booth where the attendant sat with his hands on the controls. And as my vehicle completed yet another circle, I added words to my previously unintelligible tirade,

“Mommy. Mommy. Help me. I want off. Now!”

Suddenly, the forward motion of my vehicle slowed, and I dared to believe that I had been granted a reprieve from certain death. My agony abated and it seemed my salvation drew near.

As the car slowed to a stop I remember looking over at my dad.

He was still standing in his original spot near the staircase;

looking slightly embarrassed. How could a son of his, no matter how young, sacrifice an opportunity to prove his fearlessness, and wrest victory from defeat?

(Well, perhaps the foregoing implication is reading a bit too much into the scenario. But nonetheless, daddy didn’t appear to be a “happy camper.”)

No one had to beg me to get off the THING. I found myself helping the guy as he fumbled with my seat beat. I couldn’t get back on terra firma fast enough. I must have felt rather like the military veteran returning from combat duty, (though I wasn’t savvy enough at the time to bend over and kiss the ground.)

For the moment no one was in line to ride, and the hideous sound of metal against metal had been stilled. Suffice it to say, I made a quick departure from “the scene of the crime.”

I think my dad was smart enough not to verbalize what he might have considered cowardice. After all, I had my mother to defend me. And she had cooperated in my unexpected pardon from the throes of a fate worse than death; (or so it seemed at the time.)

I never returned to that place, with or without my parents. In just the past week, having done a Google search, I learned that this roller coaster, and several other rides, such as a Ferris Wheel, and a carousel sat atop Burdines in Miami. It was called Funland in the Sky. (But if you had asked that little boy, he would have assured you there was nothing fun about it).

At this juncture in life, the attendant would be my parents’ age, and my fellow patrons would, like me, be living out their early golden years. Amazing, how quickly six decades can fall through the sandy hourglass of time.

But I can assure you those two minutes that I “rode the whirlwind” impacted me far beyond their comparative brevity in terms of the expenditure of time.

For as a rule, I simply do not

… ride ROLLERCOASTERS.

Don’t, Won’t, Can’t, Shan’t, Nada

I am altogether cognizant that the rollercoaster on the rooftop was a pitifully small affair, and in the scheme of things no more than a kiddy ride. But they say everything is relative, and at least to me, I would have sooner climbed Mount Everest than finish the ride that day. And to be fair, that tiny piece of equipment could not have climbed much higher than a man’s head, nor shadowed a piece of ground much larger than half a tennis court.

And I have stood below some rather substantial coasters, and marveled at their width and height and length and breath. And I have wondered whether I could strap myself into one of those contraptions again; if my very life depended on it. (And it is amazing for me to consider how ten and twelve year old children find the wherewithal to ride such awesomely larger versions of the tiny machine I rode so long ago. It is beyond my comprehension.)

Well, I am pleased to report that on such and such a day, perhaps six or eight years ago, I summoned up whatever one finds to summon up, and for at least the space of a few moments, I conquered those old, enduring fears which had limited me, and held me back in ways too numerous to count.

My wife and I live near the now defunct Cypress Gardens. There on the grounds of this famous tourist attraction sat two ancient torture devices, (or so it has ALWAYS seemed to me.) Jean suggested I conquer my age-old fears, and step into a line of perhaps twenty people waiting to board the smaller of the two “torture chambers.”

But there was nothing remotely small about this one. Oh, of course it was a “David” compared to the “Goliaths” I have seen in some theme parks, but it was still plenty big; easily thirty feet from ground to crest, and covering the space of almost half a football field.

I admit standing there, waiting to board, I sensed a sure and abiding kinship with that small, familiar boy who once stood in a line, not unlike this one, so many years hence. And as my wife, in essence, assumed the role of my parents, it was all so fresh, and new, and present again.

And perhaps in some not so explainable way, that little tyke, from a bygone era, stood with me, and once again abject terror filled his tear-filled eyes. And in some mysterious, but not so impossible manner he placed his hand in mine, and we steeled ourselves for a mission that neither of us had the wherewithal to complete

… alone.

Hand in hand we sat down together, and allowed a young attendant, (who looked remarkably like the one who had long since grown old) to buckle us in. And as our personal little “time machine” gained momentum, and we approached the steep incline of its first loop, I think that tiny, mirror-image of myself envisioned an opportunity where he might complete that which he had once begun.

And I think the older, heavier, balder version of that little man cast his thoughts backwards to a time and place when he had summoned up all that was good, and true, and brave about himself, when he took his place at the front of the line.

And as our colorful, little vehicle mounted the first, yet highest crest of that small-gauged track, and proceeded to drop into oblivion, I thought I felt the tender grasp of a tiny hand in mine, and somehow the boy compelled me to join him, and so we lifted our arms in unison.

And as my wife looked on, and as the coaster navigated first one loop and yet another ebb, I closed my eyes and contained a silent scream. And when I thought I heard a muted sound beside me, I turned… and he rewarded me with a smile.

Time elapsing. Slowing now.

… Mission completed.

The friendly, young attendant unbuckles our seatbelt, and allows us to step out. My wife waves, and doubles her hands above her head, as if to say,

“It certainly took you long enough,

… but you did it!”

And for the briefest moment I think I see him again, and his little hand slips from my grasp, and he steps away. And with his fading presence, I think I hear a voice, a familiar voice, but young and vibrant once again.

 “See. I told you that you could do it.

… Now, let’s go home.”

 As you might imagine, I haven’t shared this story with you, only to omit a spiritual implication or interpretation or connotation.

For you see, the account of Matthew Chapter 14 tells us that Simon Peter was tested in very much the same way when the wind began to blow, and the waves came crashing down into that small boat drifting haphazardly on a large lake.

But very much like the little version of myself, after he had enough of his unexpected adventure on the Sea of Galilee, having walked on the waves, as His Master had before him, he began to sink beneath the waves, and very much like that tyke from so long ago, he cried out for help.

In Matthew 14 verse 30, Peter pleads, “Lord, help me, I’m sinking” very much like the little me, as I pleaded with my mother to get me off of that fearsome mechanical conveyance on top of a skyscraper in Miami.

We have all been there in various times and various ways. I have sat with literally thousands of people over the course of 30 years, and heard some pretty convoluted stories.

And not unlike the little me who accompanied the older me on that second roller coaster, we have one who sticketh closer than a brother, our Lord Jesus Christ, who has promised to be with us always, and who will bring us safely through the worst circumstances life has to offer.

There will be plenty of proverbial roller coasters and plenty of proverbial Sea of Galilee’s, and plenty of do-over’s throughout the course of our lives here, but He continues to reassure us, as He did with Peter so very long ago,

“Be not afraid. It is I.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

A MOMENTARY MEETING IN AN ELEVATOR IN SCOTLAND

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My wife and I enjoyed the vacation of a lifetime last year. We had often wanted to visit Scotland and Ireland, and were determined to do so by our 70th birthdays. And true to our intentions, we just managed to do so 'by a whisker.'

 

Our hotel in Glasgow, Scotland stood on the banks of the Clyde River, (or River Clyde, as they are prone to refer to it 'over there'). We were just fifty feet from a beautiful bridge which spanned the river, a hundred yards from the convention center in which the now world famous Susan Boyle was awarded second place in "Britain's Got Talent," and an ancient overhead ship-building crane, for which the wonderful city is known, was just seconds away from the front door of the hotel.

 

On our second day in Glasgow, I boarded an elevator to take me up to our room on the third floor. And it so happened that a middle-aged, fairly non-descript man stepped on the elevator with me. I must have greeted him with a, "How are you." And recognizing my accent he said, "Are you an American?" And I evidently responded in the affirmative. (I could not be sure, and I did not ask, but based on the stranger's own peculiar accent, I surmised he was probably a native of this country).

 

As the elevator moved quickly towards my third floor destination, referring to the First and Second World Wars, my short-term acquaintance mused,

 

"Ah, we are so grateful for what your great country did for us; coming over here to help us" (and) "those dear, dear American lads. How we love and appreciate them even today."

 

And with this the elevator reached its destination, the doors opened, I nodded, and stepped off.

 

It was just a momentary, circumstantial sort of thing, lasting all of thirty seconds, and yet I will remember my brief interaction with this fine gentleman; as long as I live, and move, and breathe on the earth.

 

by William McDonald, PhD

IMPACT

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IMPACT

What an amazing opportunity every believer has been afforded. To be given the wherewithal to be a link in that unbroken chain, and to impact those whom God has set in our individual pathway.

Every day I pray, and I would encourage you to pray, (whether you happen to be young or old or in between),

"Lord, don't let me miss whatever remains of my destiny.”

Impact should be our second greatest priority in life. For you see, as believers our two greatest priorities are our relationship with God, and our relationship with and impact on mankind. And after all, the only thing we will take with us to heaven are the souls we have impacted on earth.

Let’s get real practical about Impact, and the methods by which we may practice this spiritual opportunity and obligation.

Our first responsibility is to our family members. Father, mother, brother, sister, son, daughter. We should take every opportunity to share the Gospel with unsaved family members.

And then we have something which I call “Momentary Ministry.” This brand of Impact is simply taking advantage of what I refer to as “Open Doors.” It’s the 1^st Peter Chapter 3 thing. “Be ready always to give an answer to every man who asks a reason for the hope that is within you…” It’s bringing Jesus into conversations when you, for instance, have the opportunity to share your testimony.

One of my favorite ways in which to impact people is the tract ministry. Someone once left a Christian tract on the customer service desk at the post office, and I liked it a great deal, and brought it home and have been xeroxing it. Every time I go to the grocery store or Dollar General, I leave three or four on shelves throughout the store.

Then, we have the volunteer ministry. The local church has any number of opportunities. Sunday School teacher, Royal Ranger leader, Girl’s Ministry, Bus Ministry. Food Bank.

Of course, there is the formal ministry for those among us whofeel the call to full time service. Pastor, Church Administrator, Worship Leader, Counselor, etc.

Another form of Impact which you may not have considered is what I refer to as “Leaving Something Behind.” Our time on earth is finite. We can’t stay here. We were never meant to. My father left 10 or 12 hours of audio tapes behind; which I have transferred to a hard drive. He spoke about his growing up years and military service. I have compiled hundreds of photos, a great deal of family research, my unpublished volumes, and ministry materials on attachable drives which I plan to leave with my children, and I hope they will bequeath to their children. These storage devices include a letter I have written to my descendants in which I share my aspirations for them, and share my faith in Jesus Christ.

And finally, at least for the purpose of my message tonight. I would encourage you to impact your biological and spiritual descendants by means of prayer. I do something which I think only a few believers are prone to do. I pray the following prayer on a chronic basis.

“Dear Father, I pray you will bless, help, encourage and save my unborn, unseen, unnamed, and unknown biological and spiritual offspring, and use them to impact those you set in their pathway.”

by Bill McDonald, PhD

(from a teaching I shared at Willow Oak Assembly on Nov. 5, 2024)

OLD TOM

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My wife and I visited the Polk County Heritage Museum today; a genealogical library we have often visited in the past, and which my father frequented in his prime.

 

And it so happened that while we were there, I came across a large binder of photographs taken of my hometown of Bartow; over the course of the past century and a half. And among the hundreds of pictures in the collection was one which peaked my interest, like few photographic images have ever done.

 

A small, brown mule hitched to a cart with the following caption: (my paraphrase)

 

“Old Tom was a working mule; sired in Polk County, Florida about 1883. He was brought to Bartow, Florida in 1889 to help lay the first paved streets in that city. These early roadways were made up of white phosphatic clay.

The attached photograph was made on March 26, 1918 when ‘Old Tom’ was approximately thirty five (35) years of age; having worked for the city for 29 years at the time the picture was taken. How much longer the old mule worked or lived is unknown. The photo was given to Mrs. Vesta Blood by Chester Wiggins, Polk County Judge. ‘Old Tom,’ the mule, was named after Judge Wiggins' son.”

 

“Old Tom” remains an amazing example of animals which served. And as I completed the previous sentence I was tempted to use the pronoun, “who” prior to the final word; since domesticated animals possess emotions so much like our own, and they become so like family to those who are privileged to know, and love them.

 

In my mind’s eye I see Old Tom, as he is awakened for the thousandth time by “Billy Sims,” a burly man, and as comparatively young as his faithful mule. And having hitched the four-footed creature to a two-wheeled cart, he climbs aboard, and gives the reins a loud crack, and they’re off.

 

And having rolled along for the space of ten or twelve minutes, they arrive at a vast pile of white clay. Billy immediately dismounts, and proceeds to shovel the phosphatic earth into the bed of the wagon. And while the morning is new, Old Tom is already sweating in central Florida’s sub-tropical, summer heat, and as he waits on Billy to complete his task, he dips his head from time to time to snatch a blade of grass, or a succulent weed.

 

A quarter hour passes, and the cart is filled to capacity; a great pile of clay threatening to splinter the wheels on which it stands. Billy jumps into his well-worn seat, snaps the reins, and they’re off again. In short order the familiar duo arrive at a place in the road where white clay gives way to gray sand, and the poorly paid city employee puts his previous efforts into reverse.

 

Spade after spade of chunky white clay adds foot after foot, yard after yard, mile after mile to the expanding network of what at that time passed for pavement. And as Billy toils, and glistening beads of sweat fall off the back of his faithful mule, and sprinkle the ground under him, other teams of men and animals may be seen in the distance, and multiply their progress.

 

And as the clock hands slowly spin, Billy and Old Tom repeat their circuitous trek to the clay pile, and back, to the clay pile and back (and) to the clay pile and back; while the strong young man and the sturdy brown beast realize an ache in every joint, and weariness in every step.

 

… And they hope for the night.

 

There exists in modern times a song which aptly characterizes the laborious toil of Billy and his faithful mule.

 

“And So It Goes”

 

For you see that formerly young man and formerly young mule continued doing the same thing they’d been doing, while years dropped like sand into the proverbial hour glass. Billy’s hair grew gray, and he developed a bit of paunch about his belly. While Old Tom aged a bit less gracefully, and with the passing years his back slumped, and his ribs shown through his tough, brown hide.

 

I like to believe that old mule’s involuntary servitude was accompanied by kindness, (rather than the standard fare to which beasts of burden were so often exposed), that Billy’s words were gentle and full of appreciation, that Old Tom’s wounds were tended, and his illnesses were treated, and that his last days were better than his first;

 

… as the harness was removed from his tired, old body for the last time, and he was afforded a lush, green pasture, and plenty of trees to while away his final days on the earth.  

by Bill McDonald, PhD

SHIRLEY'S SANDALS

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The counseling association to which I belonged at the time, The American Association of Christian Counselors, was co-sponsoring a week-long conference along with Focus on the Family in Denver, and I was determined to take advantage of the opportunity.

Our hotel was no more than a couple of blocks from the convention hall, and while I attended various workshops during the day, my wife toured the local sites, such as the Denver Mint, and Rocky Mountain National Park.

The week passed quickly, and the event was everything I might have hoped for, or expected. Dr. James Dobson, founder and then president of Focus on the Family, spoke to the audience on the closing night of the conference. Afterwards, he invited anyone who would to chat with him, pose for photos, (and no doubt, he got writer’s cramp with all the autographs he gave out that evening.)

It so happened that I was somewhere near the middle of a line of people which stretched from one end of the auditorium to the other, and I decided to “bail out.” Leaving the line, I walked to an exit door, and prepared to head back to the hotel. But then

… I changed my mind, and walked back from whence I’d come. I was going to talk to this man. After all, I’d traveled 1500 miles to be here, and I doubted the opportunity would ever repeat itself. Well, since I’d walked away, I was now forced to take my place at the end of the line.

Slowly, but surely the line moved forward, (with the emphasis on “slowly.”) Dr. Dobson must have had the patience of Job, since he would pose for photos, and sometimes summon family members to stand with their loved one. As I neared the imminent psychologist, I heard Shirley Dobson utter a quiet complaint.

“Jim, we really need to go home. It’s getting so late.”

I looked over at her, and was surprised to see the “First Lady of Focus on the Family” standing there barefoot, and holding her sandals in one hand.

By this time, I was no more than a few feet from Dr. Dobson, and he was speaking to his last two or three participants of the event. And it was obvious that he planned to attend to everyone in line, whether his wife was tired, hungry, or just plain ready to go home. But to his credit, he did not say, “Well, darn Shirley. Why did you bother to come with me, if you can’t hang loose, and let me do my job?”

But it was finally my turn, and Dr. Dobson smiled, and he looked my way.

“Well, how are you doing? I’m James Dobson.” (But he may have been thinking, “Man, oh man. I’m glad this guy is the ‘Last of the Mohicans’ and I know Shirley is gladder than I ever thought about being. She’s really gonna pound my head!”)

I introduced myself, got his autograph, and asked my question.

“Dr. Dobson, what one recommendation would you suggest to a pastoral counselor?”

He put his imminent demise out of his head, and replied,

“Well, if I had more time, perhaps I’d come up with something wiser, or more interesting, but I’d encourage you to be loyal to your clients, your pastor, your church, and your God.”

I thanked him, and stepped away; content that this was very good advice. It was time to make that five minute walk back to the hotel.

But in the meantime, time had slipped away from me, and it was approaching “the bewitching hour.” My wife had long since begun wondering what had become of me, (since she knew the meeting would have ended two hours ago,) and she had spoken to the hotel security guard.

“Well ma’am, perhaps he’s gone to a bar to get a couple of drinks.”

To which my wife responded,

“No. No way. He’s not like that. You don’t know him. He doesn’t drink.”

And they agreed that he’d go looking for me if I didn’t appear within 5 minutes.

Well, I did.

And my wife was not a “happy camper.”

Of course, I apologized, and told her that time had gotten away from me, and that I’d been talking with Dr. Dobson.

While the psychologist with the initials “J.D.” might have slept on the sofa that night, thankfully my wife was almost as big a fan as I am of “the man,” and the matter was soon forgotten.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

MY MONKEY & ME

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I suppose I was 12 or 13 when that I “put in” with my mother to buy a pet monkey. In those days you could purchase squirrel monkeys in pet shops, though to my knowledge one would need a special pet handling license to do so now.

At any rate, the day dawned when mama succumbed to my wishes and drove me to the local pet shop, and we proceeded to browse the “monkey section” of the store. Of course, given that we lived in a lightly inhabited area of the state, you might imagine the selection was a bit thin. I suppose there may have been all of two or three monkeys from which to choose.

To this day I don’t recall what sort of home-going receptacle the store keeper packed the little critter in, nor the name which I ultimately gave him, nor what I fed him, but we someone managed to do the deed, and he was mine.

To say I was ill-prepared to take care of the tiny imp would be an understatement, since when we got home I placed the little guy in a relatively small cage behind the house, and did whatever amateurish things I did to care for him. And I might well have added one more item to the list of variables in the previous paragraph.

How long I had him.

Almost six decades have come and gone since that season in my life, but if memory serves me well, the little tyke “came and went” during the course of a few days.

It soon became apparent that there would be no holding of, nor playing with my newfound “friend,” since to do so would have resulted in a mauling of the hands, shoulders, neck and face I would not soon forget. And I can be quite sure this was the case, since before I “knew better” he gave me a couple of unexpected scratches and bites which put me on my guard for some rare tropical disease.

It may have been the same week I adopted him, or the next that I gingerly opened the door of his cage to feed him a banana or bunch of grapes, when he darted out said door, and scrambled up a nearby oak tree. As I reflect upon it now there can be little doubt that he’d been longingly looking up into the tree above him, and making plans to escape; as surely as you can say, “Shawshank Redemption.”

And as “Mrs. Fairfax” of the book and movie, “Jane Eyre” might have mused,

“What to do? What to do?”

There seemed to be little that I could do. I recall standing beneath that old oak tree, looking up, and he sat among the top branches of the tree, looking down. It was then that I shouted a few choice four letter words, kicked over the cage, and stood there watching the little guy celebrate his escape for an hour or more. No doubt, I enlisted the help of my dad, and no doubt he informed me of the hopelessness of my predicament. Like putting toothpaste back into a tube, no coxing managed to lure the creature back into the cage.

There was little I could do but set a course for my nearby back door, and leave the fate of my fuzzy friend to Providence.

Odd how sometimes we never know the ultimate outcome of this or that momentary occurrence, or sometimes we live out multiplied decades; when things suddenly become as recognizable as a completed thousand piece puzzle. 

It was only last year that I happened to mention that ancient one-monkey zoo, and the occupant thereof, to my brother, Wayne. And it was then that I saw something register in his eyes. For it seems he was endowed with a missing piece of that puzzle, and had “kept it in his pocket” for well over half a century.

“I heard that little critter lived in those trees surrounding Mr. Pickens’ house for years.”

My brother’s informational tidbit caught me off guard, and no doubt I responded with a,

“Say what?”

Mr. Pickens owned a commercial plant nursery which was located a few hundred yards from my house, and I worked part-time for him after school during my teen years. But in spite of this, I’d never heard this story, and I found myself relieved that the tiny ape had managed to survive longer than I might have hoped at the time.

The State of Florida is home to numerous exotic native and non-native species. Black bears, panthers, alligators, crocodiles, boa constrictors, manatees, and monkeys of every breed and variety prowl the swamps, forests and waterways of our peninsula.

On a peripheral note, I vividly remember my 40 day National Guard stint in Homestead after Hurricane Andrew. The 2/116 Field Artillery had “set up shop” on the property of the Metro Zoo; or what was left of it. We were informed that a research facility on the grounds of the zoo had been wiped out during this Category 5 storm, and that dozens of HIV-infected monkeys had escaped; not unlike the previous escapade of my little friend. And we were admonished, should we see one, to shoot the critter on sight. None, however were sighted, and none, however were shot. It has been conjectured that these research animals made their way into the Florida Everglades, and proceeded to practice un-safe sex the past two and a half decades. As a result, there might well be hundreds of HIV-infected monkeys roaming a full third of our state.

I like to think my little friend lived out a full, contented, (though admittedly solitary) life “on the lamb.” No doubt, he was better for having made his escape from his outdoor prison, and from the well-intended, but amateurish likes of me.

Somehow I’m glad he, like all those other exotic creatures which populate my native environment, was given the opportunity to live and to die free, and that in my latter years I was provided with some understanding of his ultimate fate.

I am once again reminded that knowledge is a gift. Not unlike the recognition which comes with the completion of a tedious puzzle.

I can see him now; enjoying those wild, ecstatic moments amongst the branches.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

 *Over 50 years after my monkey escaped from its cage, I became social media friends with the daughter of the man who bought the caladium nursery about two hundred yards down the road from where we lived. I asked her whether she had any information about the little critter, and I was surprised and gratified when she responded, as follows:

“Wow! He did live in what we called the jungle for years. We named him Bobo and we also fed him grapes and bananas. He would come and sit on the doorknob of our front door many times when he wanted something to eat. I caught him and held him for a very “short” minute . Usually just talked to him and fed him, but didn’t get too close, though he would take fruit from us. He would swing from branch to branch and squeal. We loved him so much. We left for a vacation. ( not sure the time of year), but when we came home we never saw him again. I believe my dad was told someone from the trailer park by the bridge had caught him and he later died. Never knew where he came from, but I think he had a good life. Could go in the barns when it was cold. Our visiting relatives loved to see Bobo. Many great memories and so sad when he was gone. Good to know after so many years where Bobo came from. Loved that little monkey. Thanks ”

(And in regard to my ‘thanks’ for giving my monkey love and care…)

“Oh, you are welcome. We certainly loved that little guy. I believe he did have a good life while with us. Free to roam the jungle, but shelter when needed. Plenty of food too.”